Ghost Writer
by Master Ice
Summary: A little fic from a prompt on my Facebook page. George needed to work on his unlocking charms, but Fred denies any involvement in the experiment that winds the twins with Hermione's diary. Now, Fred has to find peace with a furious Hermione and convince her who the ghost writer really is... Fred/Hermione, Ron/Hermione, George/Angelina.
1. Chapter 1

_**Okay, okay...To my old readers who like the supermegafoxyawesomehot people they are, and are still waiting patiently for my new chapter on OILYIRBLY. I love you all! I am just going through some serious writers block and technological difficulties, but I swear, the rest of the chapters wont be taking this long. This is just a little something I wrote as a prompt on my page, 'Oh My Rowling! Harry Potter is not just a movie series.' If you like my work, go and like. Now, this is my first Fremione, and it will only be updated when I have time, and OILYIRBLY will always take preference until I manage to finish it.**_

_**So enough of my rambling...And introducing Fred, George and Oliver to the stage for act one!**_

_**'Oh...She knows'**_

_**Master Ice**_

"You are a genius."

"I know."

"And like most geniuses, you're going to die horribly and at a young age."

George raised an eyebrow. "As if Freddie," he snorted.

Fred rolled his eyes and stretched languidly on the bright crimson and gold saturated bed. "Honestly, I have no idea why you decided to steal _Hermione's _diary."

George sat cross legged on the bottom end of the bed, flicking through the worn white pages, slightly transparent and ruled with blue lines. "We needed to work on our unlocking charms."

Fred huffed, summoning another box of tissues, taking a bunch and blowing his nose that resembled his bright hair more than anything. "I don't need to work on them, you do," he mumbled through his clogged nose.

"Come on, Freddie. Anyone would think you had a thing for her," George teased, nudging him with his foot.

Fred rolled his eyes but cracked a small smile, "Honestly Georgie, I don't know why I put up with you sometimes."

George tossed a pillow at his head, "Because you love me, Freddie. I thought we'd established that." He examined the diary again, "I think I've improved in the-"

"_Four months_."

"Exactly," he beamed, "over the course of the last four months, I have improved dramatically in the casting and variation of spells used to unlock Miss Grangers trunk."

"Stop using big words," Fred groaned, rubbing his temple with one hand. "The other headache potion won't take effect for another fifteen minutes."

George nudged him again, "And if I can unlock Hermione's trunk..."

"You can open Pandora's box," Fred yawned, blinking away his watery eyes.

"I was going to say-"

"Anything."

"Anything."

"Anything."

"We should stop repeating ourselves-"

"Because it kind of sounds like-"

"We're talking to ourselves-"

"Or somehow stuck in a time loop-"

"And then The Doctor would come and save us all."

Fred grumbled loudly, "You cannot keep making references to that show!"

George grinned, sliding off the bed, "You have Angelina to thank for introducing me to the wonderful Whoniverse."

Fred pouted, "I don't even know what that means!"

George winked, "Exactly, now if you'll excuse me I have a date."

"Hogsmeade?"

"No, not today. Somewhere special."

Fred raised an eyebrow, "Found a new place?"

"Forbidden Forest," he answered, "near a lake."

Fred pulled his blankets up to his chin, "Well, have fun."

"Come on Freddie. I've got to find you a girl."

"Don't want one," he pouted.

"A bloke then? I happen to know that Oliver has just come on the market."

Fred _accioed _a pillow and threw it in his general direction, missing him by a rather substantial distance, not that he'd ever admit it. "Not gay," he mumbled pitifully.

George tossed the diary in his hands, catching it behind his back in one smooth motion, with an ever present smirk on his face. "You could've fooled me."

"George I swear, if you do not-"

"Mornin' boys," chirped Oliver, gently drying his hair with a towel as he walked towards his bed.

"Morning, Wood," beamed George. "Looking good this morning."

Fred grunted.

Oliver pulled a dark turtleneck over his lithe frame, smirking as he settled down his hair. "Not feelin' too good, Fred?"

Fred grunted.

Oliver cringed, "Sorry ta' here that. I hope you'll be alright for the practice match against the Badgers on Friday."

Fred grunted.

Oliver raised an eyebrow at George, "Have I done somethin'?"

George scoffed, "It's probably all the sexual tension between you two."

Fred groaned and escaped under the sheets. "Not gay!" he protested, muffled by the bright blankets and duvet.

Oliver raised an eyebrow at the wheezing lump under the covers, "I um...I'm not here to check you out. Gays aren't all out to get you, you know."

Fred pouted under the blankets, "I know. Sorry."

Wood smirked and shrugged, "It's alright, Fred. Oh, Merlin's pants I'm late!"

George quirked an eyebrow as Oliver splashed some cologne onto his neck and grabbed his leather satchel, bolting to the door, pausing as he added to George, "Date."

George grinned and patted him on the back, "Good on you, Wood. Go off and have fun, and forget about practice."

"Don't count on it, boys!" he called running down the stairs.

George grinned and eyed his carbon copy, well, the bulge he left under the blankets. "Well, Freddie. I better head off. You going to be alright by yourself?"

Fred grunted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, another day, another chapter. I'm on a different computer while I write this, hence the fact that OILYIRBLY hasn't been updated, and don't worry, WAHCTB, will be extended after I get some completed. So...Ghost Writer, a stolen diary and some shared words between Fred and Hermione. Many thanks to my first reviewer, Gryffindorseeker, and of course, my darling Quirrelmort2713. And of course to the lovely darlings:**

**-Shaela the Dancer**

**-Weecazza89**

**-Jakeluver**

**-Quirrelmort2713**

** So, I hope everyone enjoys, and I wont keep you waiting for too long...Review if you're interested in another chapter, lovelies. **

**"I am simply one _hell _of a butler."**

**Master Ice**

It was staring at him. He knew it. It didn't matter that the diary was an inanimate object. It still taunted him. Fred was tempted to take a basilisk fang to the dreaded leather bound book sitting at the end of his bed like Harry had done in his second year. But he doubted Harry had as much mucous in his system as the ginger did at that moment. His nose was raw and his throat felt like a mix between pond slime and broken glass, not wanting to swallow and endure the disgusting pain again. Honestly, the potion's should be working by now, he thought with a tightly bound mind. Of course, Madam Pomfrey hadn't been told of Fred's condition. It was the weekend, so of course, no classes that he would be missing out on. Thank Merlin. His muggle studies and divination grades could do without the added pressure of absence.

Anyways, the majority of the potions seemed to be working. George was quite the brewer. It was because of that particular twin that the pair weren't stuck in the infirmary five days a week. There was the soothing cream for burns, usually from fireworks, the boil removing spray, minor pain potions and of course, the seasonal cold and flu potions, mixed in with the bright Butter Beer bottles filled with headache reliever.

"Stop it," he groaned, glancing at the book from above his scarlet duvet, lined with gold. "You're doing it on purpose." Oh wonderful. Now he was crazy. It was a book. A _book. _Paper and ink. Leather and glue. Not a soul. He was almost positive that if the diary had a piece of Voldemort in in, Hermione would rush away and tell Professor Dumbledore. He gave the teasing literature a nudge with his foot. "I sound like a right idiot," he muttered, "I'm talking to a bloody book."

It was…hollow. There. What a great adjective to describe the feeling. He'd always had someone. Literally. There were times that they were separated, of course. They weren't joined at the hip. But even then, there was always Lee, or Oliver, or even Angelina and Katie. Now there was just a feverish Fred and a book, staring down at him. Maybe he'd be less paranoid if he stopped personifying it…Maybe.

"This is ridiculous," he breathed, shaking his head dismissively as he took the surprisingly light book in his hand. _Maybe a feather light charm? Doesn't seem to be any protective spells-Oh..._A stream of hot and sticky blue ink squirted from the lock and onto his leaking nose and flushed cheeks. "Oh bloody brilliant," Fred sighed, picking up his wand from the pocket of his robes, lying scrunched and dejected on the floor. It took only a quick cleaning charm to remove most of the ink, but his skin still felt like it was covered in hardened treacle. _Clever little witch. _Smoothing his hand over the soft cover, he tapped his wand against the gold printed letters, "Show me…" Thin lines of gold, like tiny rivers or veins in a leaf spread across the tiny crevices of the leather. He grinned to himself as the molten gold threads leaked from the cover and dripped onto the bed, before dispersing into tiny columns of steam. _The perfect spell. _If there was another curse, the golden ink would have shown a small picture, or even the name if there was enough of a magical signature. Of course, he probably should have cast the spell to avoid the Squid Face, he'd had his face rubbed in. Literally.

The cover felt as fragile as a pixies wing as he lifted it and smoothed his hand over the first page of virgin parchment. He wasn't thinking of a diary as beautiful. Nope. He wasn't going to go all poetic. Definitely-Oh bugger. Fred smoothed his thumb over the next page, the three words written in ink the colour of the leather that bound it. _Hermione Jean Granger. _Fred glanced around, checking once more that there wasn't an angry, bushy haired fifth year on his tail. He tucked his knees up to his chest and reclined against the thick headboard, placing the diary in his hands as he opened the first inkstained page.

'_I hate it…I hate them…I hate me for hating them. And I hate myself for whining like Lavender or Pavarti Patil. I'm still here, and I still miss the one friend from home. Hogwarts, fifth year. Who would have thought it? Thought that a muggleborn,' _the word 'mudblood' had been written and crossed out. _'would be able to survive in a place like this. Ron's been breathing down my neck this whole time. He is so…Gods. He is so incredibly frustrating. Always stealing my work with no more than a "Thanks 'Mione. I owe you one." By my guess, he now "owes me" four hundred and three favours. Yeah. Thanks Ronald. I'm just the girl that helped Ron Weasley, through Hogwarts because as Harry's sidekick, he can't be expected to study, just get into trouble and have Dumbledore laugh it off. Well, now I really sound like a bitter, crooked, old woman. I'm writing in a diary for peat sakes, and I sound like some whining damsel…"_

Fred was finished with Hermione challenging herself, and he flicked another twenty or so pages to a page of writing, aligned perfectly in the centre of the page. Oh in the name of Merlin's baggy Y fronts! Poetry? Merlin…Could she be any-Hey, this isn't so bad…

'_Shall I compare thee to the bloody petals of a rose?  
Thou are more beautiful…  
Or shall I speak of the way my heart beats when you are close?  
Or your smile, so bountiful?  
The magic you weave,  
It repairs and cleanses,  
I wish the world could see you differently,  
I wish you didn't see us as friends….'_

"Blimey, someone's a tortured soul," Fred breathed, running a hand through his thick, unruly hair. He smoothed his hand over the poem, "Bloody hell, she's got it for Ron! Merlin…that is just…wrong. Ickle Ronnikins wouldn't know if a girl fancied him unless she covered herself in chicken wings and hid in his bed." Fred closed the book and reached for his wand, not exactly thinking it through before he summoned a self-inking quill from his trunk.

He fingered the soft eagle owl feather in his hand, chewing on his lip as he thought. He knew he was going to be found out, but somehow that just urged him to lick the nub of the pen to prepare it. The beater traced the corner of the page with the quill, leaving a small trail of black ink. A line. A wrinkle.

What was he thinking? What-Just go along and write, 'Don't be in love with Ron. He's a right idiot, and you're meant to be clever'? A drop of ink fell onto the page, sending spidery veins of ink out as it was absorbed into the diary. He quickly wrote an 'I'. Then realised... "What the hell am I going to write…Merlin I'm an idiot."

'I don't think your choice in a friend is as… advisable as I would have hoped. Think about it… You're a strong young woman," _Jesus, where did that come from? _,"and you deserve better than pining over someone who will never return your affections. I am not saying make him jealous, that would be incredibly juvenile, but really think about this before you pine."

The final 'e' was left obese and blotched, not his best work, but all the Weasley boys learnt how to write from an old woman at Sunday school…Well, before Fred and George, in a fit of wandless magic, made the collection plate sprout legs and run. Molly had berated them, and told them that they needed to be more careful. Arthur asked the boys about Church and the muggle cars. Ginny had to learn from her darling brothers.

He blew gently on the ink, careful to stop it from spreading and flowing from where it should be. After deciding it was dry, the book was closed and placed on his bedside table while Fred leant back against his pillow and was asleep within minutes.


End file.
